Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “This is your role now? Frumpy wallflower who holds her friends’ drinks?”

  “Frumpy!” She turned toward him, a little stung.

  “That’s how you’re thinking of yourself, isn’t it? Your shoulders are down; you’re all but shrinking into the wall. What happened to the woman who commanded the attention of every guy in the bar just a couple of weekends ago?”

  “That was different,” she snapped. “I was having a moment. This is real life.”

  “Bullshit,” Scott said crossly.

  She smiled a little at that, because this version of Scott was the one she knew. The one she could handle. Her smile disappeared as he deftly plucked all three glasses out of her fingers one by one and set them on a nearby table.

  “Hey! What—”

  He extended his hand, palm up, his eyes locking onto hers in challenge. “Dance with me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24

  Claire knew the dance was a mistake the moment Scott rested his left hand on the small of her back, nudging her closer as his right hand closed around hers.

  “You weren’t expecting to see me here,” he said, easing her into the slow dance with a surprising amount of skill.

  “It doesn’t seem like your scene,” she admitted, keeping her eyes fixed over his shoulder as she concentrated on matching her steps to his. She’d never been one of those natural dancers. It was hard for her to relax, and she was always acutely aware of her motions, certain that she probably looked as stiff as she felt.

  “I choose to believe we all belong wherever we want to be in the current moment. You looked just as good sitting on a dirty bar stool at a dive bar drinking cheap wine as you do tonight in an expensive dress drinking champagne.”

  “Wait, that bar stool was dirty?”

  He squeezed her hand in warning. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you just dodged my compliment.”

  “I know what I look like,” she said stiffly. “I lack Audrey’s prettiness and Naomi’s bold confidence.”

  He pulled back slightly so he could see her face. “What’s going on with you?”

  Claire glanced up briefly, then looked away again. “Sorry. I’m in a bad mood, just hate being here. I feel like everyone knows about Brayden.”

  “Oh, you think they noticed he’s not here?”

  She gave a surprised laugh. “I think they all know about his women.”

  “Probably.”

  Claire grunted. “Thanks.”

  “Who cares what they think. What happened to him is his problem. It doesn’t have anything to do with you unless you let it have something to do with you.”

  She was quiet for a moment, realizing it was oddly nice to be able to talk about this with someone other than Audrey and Naomi. “Do you know he told Audrey that he and I were getting divorced? The entire time they were together, she thought we were long separated and I was completely out of the picture.”

  “Well, then she fell for the oldest line in the book. That’s not your fault, either.”

  “I know. But then I start wondering who else he lied to. What other lies he told. And I go down this path of thinking everyone around me knows more about my life than I do.”

  Instead of replying, Scott pulled her infinitesimally closer so her chin brushed against his shoulder as they danced. She closed her eyes just for a moment, relishing the proximity to another human being. To a man, specifically.

  “You know, when I was a kid, my mom disappeared,” he said, causing her eyes to pop open in surprise. “People said my dad killed her. The kids at school, mostly, but adults, too.”

  Claire’s stomach twisted in dismay. “Scott—”

  “He didn’t,” he interrupted. “My dad wasn’t an outstanding individual by any stretch of the imagination. He was lazy, a little selfish. But he wasn’t violent. Couldn’t even abide hunting. My mom wasn’t murdered; she left in the middle of the night. She just left. Drove away without looking back when I was eight. Sent me birthday cards every year, always a month late, but I knew at least that she was alive.”

  Claire tried to pull back to see his face, but he held her close, avoiding eye contact.

  “The point is,” he continued a little roughly, “I learned early on that we create our own narrative. It doesn’t matter what other people say about us as long as we know who and what we are. And here’s the other thing people don’t want you to know: you don’t have to be the same thing all the time. You can wear scuffed work boots one day, a bow tie the next. You can make out with an overgrown frat boy in the street one weekend and dance with a handsome contractor the next.”

  She smiled a little at that.

  “So, what’s your narrative, Claire?” His voice was husky.

  “Well.” She glanced at the swaying couples over his shoulder, caught one or two women whose gaze quickly darted away from hers when she made eye contact. No doubt about it, people were curious and a little puzzled that she was here. That she was dancing with someone who apparently was the guest of honor.

  Claire liked that. She liked surprising them.

  She told Scott that. “I have to admit, it amuses me that some of these people are wondering how we know each other. What we’re talking about. Wondering if we planned this and what we are to each other. I love knowing that they don’t know that we weren’t expecting to see the other person here.”

  Scott’s palm pressed more firmly against her back. “I knew.”

  Claire frowned. “What?”

  He cleared his throat slightly, but his voice was still husky when he answered her question. “I knew you’d be here.”

  Scott slowed to a stop, and Claire realized that the song had ended. Embarrassed that she hadn’t realized the dance was over, she took the slightest step back, though Scott didn’t release her.

  She raised her eyes to his, asking a silent question she was too scared to verbalize out loud. Did you come because you knew I’d be here?

  Claire was too scared to ask it—but not too afraid to hope.

  Scott’s brown eyes burned into hers, and Claire wondered if she had the courage to step forward, to press her lips to his in front of a hundred people. Wondered if he’d kiss her back, wondered—

  “There you are!”

  The moment was shattered by an unfamiliar female voice, and Scott’s hand dropped away.

  Claire turned, then sucked in a breath when she came face-to-face with one of the more stunning women she’d ever seen in real life. There was little doubt in Claire’s mind that the woman was a model. The wide eyes, full mouth, high cheekbones, and waifish figure were classic supermodel.

  “Hello,” the woman said with a friendly smile and a faint accent. “I’m Ivet Orlav.”

  Claire recognized the name. Definitely a model. A very famous supermodel.

  “Ivet, this is Claire Hayes,” Scott said. “I’m in the process of renovating her house.”

  “Oh, you are so lucky!” Ivet said with a beaming smile. “He does the best work. Did he tell you I first met him in Paris when he was hired to consult on some maintenance on the Louvre?”

  No, he didn’t, Ivet. There’s a lot he doesn’t mention.

  Claire sucked in a quick breath when Ivet reached out and wrapped both skinny arms around Scott’s arm and brushed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m always so thrilled when Scott and I are in the same city at the same time,” Ivet said, flicking a playful finger over Scott’s bow tie. “He always makes the best date to these events.”

  Date. Here she was, stupidly wondering if he was here because of her, when all the time he’d brought a date.

  It hurt. It hurt, and she didn’t have a clue why.

  “Claire,” he said softly.

  She held up a palm to stop his words but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she walked off the dance floor, chin held high.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24

  There weren’t many venues in Manhattan that
had a proper outdoor space, but the American Museum of Natural History was one of them. And even though the late summer night was muggy, and probably wreaking havoc on her hair, Claire was grateful for the space. She needed a moment of solitude to properly chastise herself for thinking, even for a moment, that Scott Turner had been interested in her as a woman.

  After all, the extent of his compliment had been, “You look good.” Not beautiful. Not gorgeous. Not you take my breath away.

  She’d never taken anyone’s breath away. Even Brayden, in their early dating days, had always told her that what he liked most about her was that she was “easy to be around.” She’d thought it a compliment at the time. Now she wasn’t nearly so sure.

  Even more galling than her mistaken assumption that Scott was interested in her romantically was that for a minute, for a silly, irrational minute, she’d wanted him to be. Being in his arms during that dance had been the most right thing she’d felt in a long time, and it had had nothing to do with his startling transformation from gruff contractor into tuxedo-wearing prince of the whole damn gala. It had been him. His reluctant smiles that were all the more rewarding because they were hard-earned. His subtle, wry humor. The way she suspected he felt far more deeply than he ever revealed to the world.

  And while she’d been discovering that, he’d been killing time while waiting for his supermodel girlfriend to return from the ladies’ room.

  With a huff, she sat on a bench, not particularly caring if she got her boring dress dirty before she went back inside. If she went back inside. What she really wanted was to go home. She’d only come for Audrey’s sake, and now that she knew the night had all been good-intentioned maneuvering by her girlfriends, she didn’t feel the least bit bad about ditching.

  “You all right?”

  Claire’s head swung around in surprise at the interruption. She’d been prepared for one of her friends to seek her out to check on her, but she was a little surprised to see which friend.

  Clarke West slowly closed the distance between them. Looking down at her, he flicked his wrists toward himself, pointing both fingers at his tux jacket. “You want this?”

  She laughed. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to pawn that thing off under the guise of being a gentleman, because it’s eighty-something degrees.”

  He sighed. “Damn. See, this is why I like winter events better. We men get to be the heroes when we hand off our jackets that were damn uncomfortable in the first place, and don’t have to sweat our asses off.” Clarke gestured with his chin at the bench. “Can I sit?”

  “Depends,” she said, even as she scooted over to make room. “Are you already sweating your ass off? Actually, don’t answer that.”

  “I thought it’d be cooler out here,” he grumbled, tugging off his tuxedo jacket. “I think it’s actually worse.”

  “You can flee back to the AC. I’m fine, I promise. Just getting some fresh, if slightly swampy, air.”

  Instead of going back inside, Clarke sat beside her, draping his jacket over his knee and tilting his head back to look at the sky. She turned to look at him more fully, taking in the long eyelashes, thick hair, Superman-perfect jaw . . .

  “You’re insanely beautiful,” she accused him.

  “I know, right?” He gave a faint grin, but she sensed he was on autopilot, well accustomed to his good looks, to people commenting on them. And maybe even a little bored with the whole thing.

  He looked down at her, and though he still smiled, his gold eyes were more serious than usual. “What’s your story, Hayes? Why are we out here getting sweaty?”

  She sighed and plucked at the skirt of her dress, wishing for the hundredth time that night that she’d gone not only with something prettier, but lighter.

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Rumor has it, you decided to decorate your house like strawberry lemonade?”

  “Heard about that, did you?” she asked with a laugh.

  “I caught the gist.”

  “I’ll have you know that I just ordered mauve chairs for my new sitting room, and I have zero regrets.”

  “What’s Scott have to say about that?”

  “Scott will be long gone before the last coat of paint is dry, so he doesn’t get a say.”

  “Yeah. That is his MO. I think he’s out of the city more often than he’s in it,” Clarke agreed. He studied her. “That bother you?”

  “No!” The word was too emphatic, and she realized she doth protested too much. She lowered her voice to a bored tone. “He’s just my contractor.”

  “You always sexy slow dance with your contractors?”

  “Careful,” she said lightly. “If we start attaching meaning to a slow dance, I’ll have to ask about you and Audrey.”

  He barked out a surprised laugh. “Touché. Sometimes a dance is just a dance.”

  Too true. Especially when the guy you’re dancing with has a supermodel waiting in the wings.

  “Okay, so you’re not mooning over Turner,” Clarke mused. “Someone else?”

  “More like the lack of someone else,” she admitted. “I’m brooding. And don’t tell me women can’t brood. We can. We do. Or at least I do.”

  “Noted.”

  Her hands gripped the side of the bench, and she looked down at her feet. She knew Clarke, but she didn’t know him.

  She definitely wasn’t at all sure they were at the point of discussing her sex life.

  He nudged her arm. “I get it, you know?”

  She looked up. “You do?”

  Clarke nodded. “Don’t forget, I knew Brayden. I saw what he did to you women, just like I know you all responded differently. Audrey . . .” He shook his head. “Somehow the whole thing made her more determined to put her head in the sand and believe that Prince Charming was coming for her. You, though, you know better.”

  “A fellow cynic?” she guessed.

  “Let’s just say my reputation as a love-’em-and-leave-’em guy isn’t entirely unearned.”

  “Okay, so how do you do that?” she asked. “How is it you guys do that so easily, and with normal women?”

  “They’re not always normal,” he muttered. “But I see your point. In all my years, I’ve never come across a face-licker.”

  She groaned and put her face in her hands, hunching forward. “I’m too old for this crap.”

  “What crap? One-night stands?”

  “Finding a guy to have one with. You know it’s bad when your girlfriends lure you to a black-tie gala to try and set you up for a sex date.”

  “You know. If it’s a one-night stand you’re after, you’re talking to the right guy.”

  Claire’s head snapped up. “What?”

  He laughed, holding up his hands innocently. “I don’t mean me. Audrey would kill me since she’s declared all her friends are off-limits. Tricky, since she has a lot of friends. But I’m just saying, if you need some, ah . . . assistance, you should come to the guy who actually has one-night stands.”

  “I tried that with Scott,” she grumbled. “It was not successful.”

  “Something tells me Scott was not the right man to help you hook up with somebody else,” Clarke said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just a hunch. But regardless, I . . . how do I put this . . . know a guy. I’ve got a friend. Brett. He’s a good guy, Claire. I wouldn’t mention him otherwise. Polite. Funny. Takes his grandma shopping once a month.”

  “But won’t call me the next morning?”

  “Better yet, he’s the type of guy who’s very up front about not intending to call you the next morning. He doesn’t mess with people, and he’s not indiscriminate. He actually likes women. As in genuinely respects them and enjoys their company. Especially the smart, pretty ones.”

  Claire batted her eyelashes, even as she wondered why Clarke’s compliment didn’t affect her the way Scott’s had.

  “So?” Clarke said with a grin. “I could introduce you to B
rett. If you want. Or not. Aaand . . . it’s official. I feel like a pimp.”

  “You’re not,” Claire reassured him, even as she intended to turn down his sweet, if slightly bizarre, offer. Hooking up with someone random was one thing. Being set up for a hookup was another. And was this really what she wanted? She missed sex, yes, but she wasn’t so hard up that she couldn’t wait to meet someone on her own. She wasn’t so controlled by her basic instincts that she couldn’t wait to meet a nice guy.

  Then she remembered. She didn’t want to meet a nice guy.

  And she hadn’t slept with someone since Brayden.

  That, more than anything, gave her the courage she needed. The courage to be bold. To put her vanilla life behind her and just live a little.

  Claire turned to Clarke. “You know what? Yeah. Sure. Why not. Introduce me.”

  A month ago, Scott wouldn’t have recognized himself at this moment. Former Scott would not believe that he’d turned down a supermodel, one he knew from previous experience never wore underwear, and who’d also made it perfectly clear that she was flying out to Monaco tomorrow and wouldn’t be back for several months.

  In other words, he’d walked away from a woman offering one night, and one night only, of hot sex and was heading toward the home of a woman who was infinitely more complicated.

  Yes, he’d told Oliver he wouldn’t make a move on Claire. Yes, he’d told himself the same thing at least a dozen times. Recently, a dozen times a day.

  And that had been before Scott had learned what she’d feel like in his arms. He still didn’t know what compelled him to ask Claire to dance. On the rare occasions he dragged himself to one of those damn fancy parties, he made a practice of shaking a few hands, accepting thanks from whatever charity he’d written a check to, and getting out of there as soon as possible so he could swap the tux for jeans, the champagne for a beer.

  He didn’t dance. And he certainly didn’t dance with a woman who wasn’t his date. Scott ran a hand over his face, wondering why he’d agreed to accompany Ivet in the first place. He liked the beautiful woman well enough, liked even more that she didn’t make any demands on his time aside from the occasional night they spent together. Saying yes had seemed harmless.